


Crash and Drown

by FalconFate



Series: Voltron: The Horse!AU [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Eventing accident, Gen, Horse AU, Hospital scene, I tried not to make it too graphic, Lance is a sweetheart, Sad, Sad sad sad, Shiro also needs and goes to therapy, Shiro has PTSD, Shiro needs some rest, Unconsciousness, a horse dies, bc we’re gonna put someone special in soon, brief mention of panic attacks, but with a kind of happy ending, horses are great, no longer the ship it was previously, not very shippy, okay listen season 7 fucked me up but i’m gonna fix this, shiro’s horses are great, the funeral arrangement is loosely inspired by personal experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 12:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13881093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconFate/pseuds/FalconFate
Summary: Shiro once had the best horse in the world: Kerberos, affectionately nicknamed Kerby, an athletic young gelding who must have had wings.This is the story of how those wings were clipped, and Shiro’s world briefly came crashing down around him.





	Crash and Drown

**Author's Note:**

> Wooooo boy this took a while. 
> 
> This actually kind of made me cry a little bit, so if you don’t want to spiral into a void of existentialism and depression, I’d suggest //not// reading this, but I can’t stop you. 
> 
> However, I think the ending is worth it, if you want to give it a shot. :)

It was that time of the year again.

A time when everyone was cheerier than any given day, a day that Keith gave him one of his rare hugs. When his mom gave him a call in the morning, her crisp Japanese somehow incredibly soothing, even over the phone.

 _But not Christmas_ , Shiro thought wryly. It was nearing the end of September, and the end of most equine competition seasons. He told himself to breathe. _Queenie_ told him to breathe; she gave him an indecipherable _look_ every now and again as he brushed her down, because she was a smart horse, and knew that something was off. She had known every year, since Shiro purchased her from one of his contacts in Connecticut.

Because even though it had been four years, Shiro could still hear bones shattering. An agonized scream still followed him, dragged him into a vortex in the darkest corners of his mind, a feeling of helplessness and utter hopelessness echoing through the years even now—

Queenie nudged his arm, her breath _whooshing_ in a heavy sigh. Shiro tried to copy her, steady his own breath. He pressed himself against her shoulder and buried his face in her mane. She smelled of life, and dried sweat, and aged wood, with a hint of the bubble bath he’d given her yesterday (Queenie loved her spa days); and, of course, that unidentifiable _something_ that was just… Queenie. It grounded him.

She didn’t smell like Kerberos.

* * *

_Five years ago…_

 

“I have got a _damn_ good horse!” Shiro crowed, collecting the aforementioned horse under him with hardly a thought.

“Bring him to the green, around to the blue line, and rollback to the wall!” Matt called. He was relaying Iverson’s instructions, as the old trainer had lost his voice the previous day, yelling more than usual.

Shiro nodded to signal he’d heard, and sighted on his course.

The jumps were no higher than three-six—but Kerberos’s excellent bascule brought Shiro higher, into the place of daydreams and wishes. They soared over the green; landed, collected, swept around to the blue line. _Two strides_ , Shiro knew. Jumped the first at a perfect distance, landed, _stride, stride_ , jumped the oxer with beautiful power. Land, collect, turn-on-the-dime and approach the faux-brick wall—fly again; if Shiro didn’t know better he’d say that his horse had wings, wings that he let Shiro borrow for the sliver of time they were in the air.

Land, collect.

With the lightest touch of his lower leg, Shiro guided Kerberos in a figure-eight around the jumps, hardly acknowledging the flying change; together they were raw power, perfectly synced, a single-minded equestrian machine after only a year.

“Alright, cool him out you show-off,” Matt teased. “We’ll let him finish with that.”

Shiro grinned at his friend, and at Keith, watching the lesson from his spot on the deck with his usual flat expression—but maybe a little less flat today. Maybe a tad impressed, even.

With a shift of weight, Shiro brought Kerberos down to a working trot. He let him lengthen down the longside to stretch his head, and then collected him on the shortside, walking when they reached the center post. Shiro let the reins fall to Kerberos’s neck, giving the horse generous pats and rubs wherever he could reach—even stretching forward to scratch between the gelding’s ears.

Matt jogged over to walk next to him as Iverson left the arena. “He _looks._ _so._ _good_ ,” he gushed. “Iverson was impressed. He won’t admit it, but I could tell. He had this _look_ , Shiro, a look I’ve only heard described in my dad’s stories.”

“He definitely feels amazing,” Shiro agreed. “I don’t think I’ve ever jumped a horse quite this talented, and comfortable.”

“And his flatwork is FEI-worthy!” Matt exclaimed. “He’s just FEI-worthy all around, man. I’m _almost_ jealous.”

“Shh, don’t let Mission hear you say that,” warned Shiro in a stage-whisper. Matt giggled.

“I think she’d agree with me on this one,” Matt whispered back.

When they reached Shiro’s little brother, he was practically folded over the fence. Kerberos had cooled down enough that Shiro allowed him to stop, and Keith leaned forward to pet the gray’s nose.

“He’s looking great,” Keith commented. “Are you done for today?”

Shiro nodded. “Yeah, the trails are closed today. You want to help me untack?”

“Yes, but Iverson told me to work the schoolies,” grumbled Keith. “Half of the mares are in heat, and too dangerous for most of the students if they’re not worked beforehand. So.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Shiro chuckled, waving him on. “I’d like to keep you on Iverson’s good side.” Keith rolled his eyes as he turned to go, so Shiro called after him teasingly, “Have fun, little bro!”

Keith turned to stick out his tongue, much to Shiro and Matt’s delight.

Then Kerberos nudged Matt’s shoulder, asking for attention—or treats. Matt blinked at him, once, twice. Then he grinned. _“Who’s a good Kerby?”_

* * *

 Kerberos was his second half. Together they were unstoppable.

Shiro should have known not to get cocky. 

* * *

  _Four years ago:_

 

_Land, collect, gallop. Collect, jump, land, collect, gallop. Collect, drop, gallop; collect, turn, jump, land, collect—_

Kerberos powered through the cross-country course, as brilliant an eventer as Shiro knew he would be. After two years, they were now showing intermediate, the fences stretching up over three feet. And they took them in stride, without breaking rhythm, hardly even pausing to take a breath.

Dull green, mist-soaked trees whizzed by, and then disappeared in favor of an open field. First the trakehner: _jump, land, collect;_ and then the dropoff to the pond, something they’d done so many times before, and he was looking to the next jump, _collect, drop_ —

— ** _fall fast land-water-splash-darkscreamchokepainshoulder--_**

**_…black._ **

…

…

… _white_. White ceiling. White walls. White lights. White curtain, white sheets, white _hair_ falling over his eyes. White noise, fuzzy like everything else.

A mullet in his face. Not white, thank heavens.

His own head was fuzzy. Everything was… floating. As if Keith’s head on his chest was the only thing keeping him grounded, kept him from floating away right into space.

Shiro went back to sleep.

* * *

 The next time he awoke, Keith was nowhere to be found. Matt, however, was slumped in a plastic chair on his left, snoring softly, still in his show breeches, but wearing a clean shirt. The lights were off, but sunlight fell in slender panels through mostly-closed blinds.

The sheets were thin. The air was cold. Shiro shivered, and the slight motion sent pain shooting into his right arm, and his head began throbbing. He groaned, forgetting the chill altogether in favor of new discomfort.

Matt jolted awake. He saw that Shiro was awake, and his eyes went wide, from relief and then worry. “Hey, hey, what’s—Shiro, hey, what hurts?”

“Everything,” Shiro gritted out, now that he thought about it. “Head. Arm. Why does… what happened?”

“You’ve been unconscious for four days,” Matt said softly, running his fingers through Shiro’s hair in an attempt to soothe whatever he could. It helped, a little. “The doctors are saying you’ll be out of commission for a while. Your arm was dislocated in the fall, and—and… broken in two places. And a fracture in your wrist. And you have a cracked rib.”

Shiro blinked, mulling it over slowly, slowly. “Ow,” he said at length.

Matt choked on a laugh. Suddenly, Shiro noticed the tears in his eyes. Matt noticed him noticing. And then Matt buried his face in Shiro’s unhurt shoulder, sobbing, sounding more broken than even Shiro.

“Mattie… Mattie, I’m alive, why are you… what happened?” Shiro tried to be soothing, could barely lift his left arm but he managed to take Matt’s hand in his, rubbing stuttering, uneven circles over his knuckles. “Matt, talk to me…”

“He-he-he caught his hoof—caught his hoof on the drop-off—the water was red, Shiro, I thought it was the clay but it was _him_ , he was—he couldn’t—the vets couldn’t get there—get there in time—”

Ice settled in the pit of Shiro’s stomach. “Kerby?” he tried to ask. His voice was too weak, but Matt heard, and sobbed harder.

* * *

 A month later, Shiro returned to the Garrison. Iverson clapped a hand on his (uninjured) shoulder in a rare display of sympathy. Keith gave him a hug before he ran off to wherever he needed to be. Matt stayed by his side, only leaving for a few minutes to check up on his own mare—Mission hadn’t been doing so well since her pasturemate hadn’t come back—but he was there when Shiro finally collected the courage to see Kerberos’s stall, fully expecting Iverson to have given it to someone else.

Iverson had not.

The box had instead been turned into a memorial.

Flowers spilled over the stall door; forget-me-nots, white lilies, pale pink and yellow roses, lavender and lilac, wildflowers Shiro recognized from one of the trails. A portrait of Kerberos was the centerpiece; someone skilled with watercolor had taken the time to paint Kerberos’s face, ears pricked in a mischievous fashion, eyes bright and alive.

Shiro fell to his knees in front of the memorial, taking deep, shaky breaths, tears spilling down his cheeks. Matt knelt beside him, crying too. “I didn’t know someone had put this together,” he admitted, which only made Shiro cry harder.

* * *

 Later, Shiro learned that someone had come up with the idea to put flowers on Kerby’s stall door, and then dozens of other people—some people he knew, a lot he didn’t—had mirrored that bit of kindness and bought or picked flowers, until at last the entire door was covered. Iverson didn’t know who had started the flowers, but he admitted to commissioning one of his artistically-inclined students for the painting.

After a few months of recovery, Shiro tried getting back in the saddle. Watching other lessons, he’d been only slightly reluctant to see other people jumping; actually jumping himself, however, was another matter, one that usually ended up with him struggling for breath and making the lesson horses he rode nervous.

Countless panic attacks later, Matt’s dad eventually pressed Matt to convince Shiro to see a sports psychologist. The lanky fellow he ended up coming back to, Dr. Ulaz Wit, was surprisingly easy to get along with; he’d been a low-level dressage competitor in college, before completely switching to vaulting, all while finishing up his Doctorate in Psychology.

Shiro saw him every other week for about half a year; around the time that Shiro found Queenie was when he started seeing Ulaz monthly.

Today, four years after the accident, he still saw Dr. Wit every other month, or whenever Shiro felt he needed to come in.

Ulaz had urged him to not come in on the anniversary of the accident, to instead spend time with his loved ones who were still with him. Matt usually joined him; Mission had died about a year and a half ago, aging prematurely when Kerberos died, and she’d lived out the rest of her life as a walk-trot beginner horse at the Meadows.

Shiro was mulling over the memories as he ran his fingers through Queenie’s silky tail when he heard a _tap-tap_ at Queenie’s stall door. He looked up, surprised to see Lance standing there… holding a fistful of lavender and forget-me-nots.

Lance fidgeted slightly. “Hey, uh… I’ve been growing lavender in my windowsill for a couple of years now, and Bluebell and I found some of these on the trail. Aaaaand I think you’re the only person here so far I haven’t yet given lavender, ’cept Zarkon and his… uh… friends? Are they friends?”

“I really appreciate it, Lance,” Shiro told him, sniffing just a little before he accepted the little bundle—the flowers were tied together with a piece of green baling twine. Lance rubbed at the back of his head a little awkwardly, and turned to go, but Shiro quickly pulled him into a hug.

It was short. As Shiro pulled back, he gave Lance a watery smile and said, “I don’t suppose you were the one who started putting flowers on Kerby’s door, way back when?”

Lance stared at him incredulously. “How did—?! I mean, yeah, but how did you figure that out?”

Shiro lifted a shoulder casually. “Lucky guess.”

Maybe today was going to be more than simply a miserable memorial.

**Author's Note:**

> So, as I said in the tags, this is a little bit inspired by personal experience—I myself have a terrible confidence void surrounding jumping, and I don’t even know what specific event caused it, so I’m projecting a little bit onto Shiro. The flower thing was inspired because when I was little, I rode this little old gelding named Jefferson, and when he died, someone made a bridle out of flowers to hang on his hook in memoriam.
> 
> Great thing about riding: there is dressage! Which is what I do! Except I’m in Stage Two BHS and have to sit an exam over fences soon, blegh (but this is the last year I have to do so because BHS changed the course directions, so next year it’s DRESSAGE DRESSAGE DRESSAGE). 
> 
> EDIT: I passed my BHS groom!! Got great comments on the flat!! I did the jumping but didn’t pass, so I’ll most likely have to do it again, but HOLYSHITIDID IT AT ALL even though I was fuckin terrified the whole time. Perhaps I’ll be projecting even more onto shiro later hmmmm ;)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! As always, comments and kudos are welcomed!


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